Verneuil: The Auld Alliance
by Thistlefang
Summary: On his hands and knees, watching his own blood splatter the ground drop by precious drop, Scotland couldn't help but feel that today had not gone well. T for violence, cursing and France.
1. Leaving Verneuil

**August 17th 1424 - Verneuil - Normandy**

On his hands and knees, watching his own blood splatter the ground drop by precious drop, Scotland couldn't help but feel that today had not gone well. A few feet away and in even worse condition lay France – his blond hair matted and dirty, face streaked with mud, breathing ragged and his usually bright blue eyes dulled by pain.

Gritting his teeth, one hand cradling the massive gash in his abdomen and staunching the torrent of blood threatening to spew fourth, the Scot staggered to his feet and steadied himself. Then, step by agonising step, he made his way over to his ally.

"Oi, Frenchie," he hissed through clenched teeth, "Ney quittin' yet. We're doon, no oot. Y'hear?"

France laughed weakly, clutching at an arrow which had been lodged in his side. "Oui, _mon ami_, but I think zat we may need to recover our strength first, non?"

"Aye, ya need yer beauty sleep, right? Thing is, we don' 'xactly have time fur that. Baby brother seems pretty intent on wipin' us both oot completely."

That earned yet another pained chuckle from the Frenchman. "Zat e' does, _mon lapin_, but even 'e sees that zhis battle is over, for ze moment at least."

The red-head nodded and held out his hand to the other man, which France took, pulling himself up with a groan.

"C'mon, we need to get that arrow oot'a ya. Mortal wounds like that may no kill us, but we both know wit'll happen if we don't and the healin' kicks in."

"You realize zat I cannot understand a word you are saying with zat ridiculous accent, _oui_?"

* * *

A scream of pain sliced through the otherwise still air, causing several birds in the nearby woods to take flight. Inside the small cottage that stood on the forest's outskirts France stood propping himself up against a wall, fists clenched as Scotland snapped the arrow shaft neatly in two and then began pulling it out of – or rather _through_ – his side.

Almost as soon as it was out the blond collapsed, bringing the taller Scot crashing to the floor with him. A string of curses too vile to write in even an M rated fic left the mouth of the latter, but France ignored them. He made no attempt to get up, or even move for that matter. Instead, he lay sprawled out on his back, chest heaving and eyelids heavy.

"Frenchie! Oi, Frenchie! Ya still alive?"

"_Oui_," came the breathless reply, "Ze world would not simply let something as perfect as _moi_ die. _Et toi Ecosse_?"

"Aye. 'M fine. Just flesh wounds mate. Nothin' a good night's rest willnae cure."

"_Bien_," France replied, but his voice lacked it's usual enthusiasm. Just as Scotland was about to ask what was wrong the frenchman spoke again, devoid of any emotion but regret:

"I fear, _mon ami_, zat we may 'ave lost control of Normandy today."

* * *

_In the clearing stands a boxer and a fighter by his trade,_

_And he carries the reminder of every glove that laid him down,_

_And cut him till he cried out in his anger and his shame._

_I am leaving, I am leaving but the fighter still remains._

* * *

Author's note: _So, what do you guys think? Should I continue this? Reviews are always appreciated and thanks for reading :)_


	2. Looking back

"Perhaps it would be better to surrender? Zhis war does not seem to be going anywhere any time soon. What is ze point?"

"What in bloody blue blazes are you blabbin' about Francis!? The point is no lettin' that English bastard take control! Don't dare tell me you'd rather let 'im run yer country? Think of how _bland _it would be!" Steam was practically coming out of the Scot's ears as he yelled, his fierce temper showing it's self once again.

That didn't bother Francis. He was used to his ally's short fuse and often volcanic explosions of anger. This was relatively small-scale. Rather than cringe, he simply sighed. "You are right, _lapin_. What would happen to my beloved France? It would be overrun with scones and... eugh... cardigans."

"Exactly. An' I don't even wanna think aboot what would happen if 'e got 'is paws on that wine 'o yours."

"_Mon dieu_! Zat would be 'orriffic!"

"Well, if ya want it all ruined then go right ahead an' surrender. If not then would ya please at least move? Yer lying on ma legs."

France smiled, then winced as he pulled himself up and flopped down into a nearby chair, for once not caring about the blood soaking into the soft padded fabric. He couldn't help but find it funny, that Scotland should say those exact words to him yet again. It was almost exactly like the day they had met.

* * *

All of the world's countries were gathered, yet again, around one massive table and much like during every meeting of this kind Francis Bonnefoy was bored. He let out a long suffering sigh, tired even with flirting shamelessly with the various women (and men) in the room. The only thing that could possibly make things worse – and most likely a bit more interesting - was if that little pipsqueak England showed face.

As if on cue, the bushy-eyebrowed teen half-sauntered into the room, a much taller red-head dragging behind him.

France managed to catch a few snippets of their very one-sided conversation, even from all the way across the room. _Why'd ye need me tae come?_ _Why'd ye no take Welshey with ye? Do ya need me tae fight yer battles fur ye, kid?_

The Frenchman took that last statement as his cue to cut in, sliding up behind the thickly accented stranger, a smarmy grin plastered on his face as he addressed England.

"_Bonjour_, _mon ami_! I see you 'ave brought a friend to play."

"Get lost Frog!" The short blond answered, then mumbled under his breath, "And he's my big brother, _not_ my friend."

The fiery-haired man, who had not looked behind him the entire time, then spun on his heel and before France could even blink he found himself pinned against the nearby wall, lifted by the collar and feet dangling above the ground as he was inspected by a narrowed pair of yellowish-green eyes.

"So you're the 'frog' who's been givin' baby brother so many problems." The voice was gruff and no-nonsense. It was by no means welcoming.

This panicked France and he flailed his arms, kicking against the wall and sending both of them toppling to the ground like felled trees. France looked at the man he had landed on top of nervously.

The malice in the stranger's gaze made him sure he was about to be punched, or worse. Probably worse. It was, therefore, much to his surprise when the other started laughing - hesitantly at first, then almost uncontrollably. France joined in with a nervous chuckle, wondering just what in the name of hell was going on. The laughter stopped abruptly and the green eyes were once again trained on him.

"I like you Frenchie – ye don't look much like a frog tae me. The name's Allistor Kirkland – Scotland."

"Francis Bonnefoy, but I assume that you already knew zat. It is nice to make your acquaintance too, _mon lapin_."

"What!?" England suddenly interjected, making the tow of them snap their gazes upwards to the seemingly furious teenager standing over them. "You were supposed to try to kill each other, not flirt - this story's genre is friendship, not bloody romance!"

"Go tae hell ya daft wee lassie," Scotland shot back at his younger sibling, then turned to the Francis. "An' you, would ya move? Yer lying on ma legs."

* * *

If I retreat,

Words, wars, and symphonies,

Make room we're taking over here.

So the gallanting,

Cold and alone, it suits you well.

You won't find me perching here again.

* * *

Author's note: Yay! Another chapter! Once again, thanks for reading and as always Reviews are always appreciated - feel free to criticize away, it's the only way I'm ever gunna get any better at writing :)


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